


i come undone (a little fragile)

by lonelier_version_of_you



Category: Holby City
Genre: (and autistic Oskar too but he's not actually in this so it's only mentioned), Angst, Autism, Autistic Henrik Hanssen, Disabled Character, Hurt/Comfort, I guess I should tag, Internalised ableism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, also Sacha and an OC are both in this for 5 seconds for plot reasons, because those contribute to Henrik's meltdown too, but I didn't think they were worth tagging lol, though it's not really deliberate or very graphically described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelier_version_of_you/pseuds/lonelier_version_of_you
Summary: Henrik has a bad day at work. John helps him deal with the aftermath.
Relationships: John Gaskell/Henrik Hanssen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	i come undone (a little fragile)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a really bad time lately, but I've kept up a pattern for this whole year of posting at least 1 new fic every month, and I didn't want to let my readers down.
> 
> So! I projected my Really Bad Time onto Henrik. As I do. I'm imagining this takes place... roughly a year into the future? So late 2021-ish, around the fourth anniversary of the shooting.
> 
> As a result of me being in such a dark place, this is _very badly written_. Like, legitimately, I don't think I've ever put out a lower quality fic than this. I haven't even proofread it properly. It mostly exists so I don't give myself a breakdown over disappointing my readers this month. Sorry.
> 
> In case you didn't read the tags, there is self-harm in this fic. Not really purposeful, and it's not described super graphically, but self-harm nonetheless. Also, like, I don't know how to warn for this, but Henrik briefly uses _very_ light physical force on John to get John to stop touching him; he has no harmful intent, he's just panicked and not thinking clearly enough to ask in words, but I should probably mention that anyway.
> 
> (BTW, I'm aware it seems odd to post a oneshot for this pairing when I've been working on a longer fic. Long story short, I no longer have access to my computer. So I've lost the chapters of 'you turn into someone else' that I was working on. Sorry to disappoint. I may or may not continue it someday, depending on whether I ever get my computer back. For now, have this oneshot.)
> 
> Fic title from Fragile by Delta Goodrem.

Henrik isn’t quite sure when he started feeling this suffocated.

Maybe it was when he got called in for a shift last minute this morning, after having barely slept the previous night. Or maybe it was when a patient took one look at him and asked _“you’re the bloke whose son shot up this place, right?”_. Or maybe it was when two junior doctors came to him arguing about the right diagnosis for a patient, but instead of actually letting him get a word in they just kept _yelling at each other_ and it was so goddamn _much_.

Either way, Henrik has shut himself in the consultants’ office, and is currently trying to pretend to himself that he’s not just hiding from the world. To pretend that this isn’t just another instance of him being a fucking coward.

He can’t stay in here forever, he knows he can’t, and someone else will probably come in eventually, but for now it’s quiet and calm here and so loud and overwhelming on Keller.

God, this is pathetic. He’s a 55-year-old man hiding in an office because work is too much. He’s sure Jac doesn’t do this. Roxanna doesn’t do this. Sacha doesn’t do this. It’s just him.

He knows he’s supposed to be kinder to himself than this. John tells him that, his therapist told him that, his friends tell him that. But it’s hard, after a lifetime of blaming himself, of being convinced he was broken.

_Speak of the devil,_ Henrik thinks as he hears the door open, and looks up to see Sacha walk in.

“Oh, hey, we were wondering where you’d got to.”

“We?”

“Me and Dom.”

“I ought to be treating patients. I know.”

“We’re not mad. It’s pretty quiet today anyway. We were just... we know this time of year is difficult for you, and we were worried. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’ve not been having the best day,” Henrik admits, “but that’s all. I’ll be alright.”

Sacha nods in understanding. “Okay.”

As soon as Sacha’s left, Henrik decides he should follow suit. He forces himself to get up from his chair, and walks back onto the ward.

* * *

Henrik’s patient from earlier, Angelina Smith, isn’t any nicer when he returns.

He’s in the middle of informing her about her CT scan results when she says “I’m surprised they still let you work here. I would’ve thought they wouldn’t, you know, just in case.”

Henrik tries to ignore that remark. “You will probably have to have surgery, I’m afraid. I think the best option is—”

“Some of the staff here say you were in on it, or so I’ve read. You and your son plotting together.”

“If it were a joint effort, do you really think I’d be here treating you instead of in prison or dead?”

“The nurse who published that newspaper article says that’s exactly why you didn’t do it yourself. You used your son as an assassin because you didn’t want to get your hands dirty.”

Henrik grits his teeth. This is nothing he hasn’t heard before: speculation of all sorts was everywhere in the weeks following the shooting, and Henrik forced himself to read through it. He knows full well the things people – even some of the hospital staff, apparently – think about him.

But, unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any easier to hear them.

“Mrs. Smith, we are here to discuss the surgical options for your condition—”

“I’m not letting _you_ operate on me! I have the right to request another doctor.”

Henrik doesn’t have it in him to argue. Instead, he mutters “I’ll see if I can transfer your case to Mr. Levy, then,” and walks away.

* * *

Henrik, though he could never bring himself to admit it, is on the verge of tears by the time his shift is done.

He just wants to go home and lie in bed until tomorrow morning comes. This is too much, it’s too much and he can’t take it. His thoughts are a flurry of _it’s all your fault it’s all your fault you failed your son you horrible man_ all over again.

(Four years on, is that still all he is? Is he only ever going to be that man who fathered a murderer? Have the things Fredrik did become Henrik’s identity?

Henrik thinks he probably does deserve that. After all, if he’d been even a halfway decent parent, Fredrik wouldn’t have felt the need to do what he did.)

* * *

Henrik is quiet, when he gets home. He briefly greets John when he comes inside, but doesn’t say anything about work, knowing that if he tries to talk about it he’ll just break down entirely.

Unfortunately for Henrik, John knows him all too well, and he seems to notice that Henrik is feeling worse than he’ll admit. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Henrik insists, though he’s well aware he doesn’t sound okay at all.

John doesn’t press the subject any further, anyway, which Henrik is grateful for.

Henrik heads into the kitchen, hoping that maybe making dinner for the both of them will distract him. As he washes and dries his hands, he tries to get Mrs. Smith’s voice out of his head. The way she talked as though it had been him who was the killer, rather than Fredrik. (The same way he’d talked to himself, those first few months after it happened.)

He’s in the middle of stirring a bowl of soup, when he accidentally knocks it over, spilling it all over the floor. Now he’s going to have to clean it up, _and_ start all over again, because he’s so goddamn pathetic he can’t even do this right.

And of all things, this is the thing that makes him break down crying. He’s tired, he’s so fucking tired. He just wants to go to bed already. It’s just one thing after another and he doesn’t want to do this anymore.

He sits down carefully on a clean patch of the floor. He knows he should be cleaning up and starting on dinner again. That’s what any reasonable person would do. But instead, he’s sitting here, crying about how weak he is.

He hears footsteps, and a couple of seconds later, John’s voice. “Henrik?”

Henrik can’t even bring himself to look up at John. He _hates_ letting his boyfriend see him like this. John shouldn’t have to deal with him.

John speaks again. “Henrik, it’s alright. We can sort it out, it’s okay. Do you want me to do it instead?”

John’s voice is too gentle, and too nice, and it only serves to make Henrik more upset. He doesn’t deserve this. “Stop talking to me like that,” he snaps. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your partner, not your child.”

God, though, does he feel like it some days. He knows _junior doctors_ who are more functional adults than he is. He doubts any of them cry over spilt soup. He doubts any of them have had their colleagues scold them like children for missing ridiculously basic social rules. He doubts any of them are still throwing tantrums like this.

Thinking about how pathetic he is just makes Henrik cry more. He can’t do anything right, he just ruins everything he touches, he ruined his son and he ruins his relationships and now he’s even ruined his fucking dinner because he can’t even get _that one basic thing_ right...

He can only barely recognise the screaming he hears as his own voice.

He notices John sitting down next to him, recognising somewhere in the back of his mind that John’s probably already preparing to hold his hands if he starts hurting himself, and that just makes him feel worse because _he’s such a fucking burden, John must hate having to watch over him like this, he signed up for a real partner not a useless piece of shit like Henrik_.

He’s sobbing and he feels like he’s going to be sick, his legs and arms hurt and he doesn’t realise why until he feels John gently take his hands. John isn’t speaking, having been with Henrik long enough now to know talking to him when he’s like this is just going to be overwhelming, so he’s shushing Henrik gently instead.

On a better day, a day where Henrik could at least refrain from screaming or hitting himself, that would help. (They’ve talked about it before, after all, even before Oskar had got his diagnosis and Sara had said to Henrik _I think he gets it from you_ , back when the only vocabulary Henrik had for this was _episodes_ and _breakdowns_ and _bad days_. Even then, before they had a word for it, John cared about knowing how to accommodate Henrik and comfort him. Henrik doesn’t know what he did to deserve someone like John.) But right now he’s so, so, so overwhelmed, and his own screaming is only overwhelming him more, and John’s whispering is grating on his ears and it _hurts_ and–

He pushes John’s hands away.

John is quiet after that. He doesn’t grab Henrik’s hands again, either, though he holds his own out as if he’s readying himself to do so if needed.

Henrik manages not to hurt himself again after that, but he can’t stop screaming and crying, and _he just wants everything to **stop** he just wants the world to be quiet he just wants it to leave him alone_. He cries, and cries, until after what feels like a century but was probably closer to twenty minutes, he’s completely worn himself out. He’s still sniffling and gasping, but he doesn’t have it in him to cry anymore.

Hesitantly, he reaches out for John. Much to his surprise, John lets him, pulling Henrik onto his lap.

“Sorry,” Henrik mutters, leaning into John’s side. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“Don’t be,” John says, wrapping his arms around Henrik. “I know you’re trying.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Henrik, my love, you aren’t a burden. You’ve sat there and stayed with me on my worst days, when I’m sobbing and yelling at you that you aren’t real. How is this any worse than that?”

“Well, exactly. I’m supposed to be strong for you. You must be awfully tired of having to take care of me all the time.”

“It’s not all the time. And even if it were, you still wouldn’t be a burden, and I still wouldn’t get tired of you. I love you, Henrik.”

“But... I hurt you.”

John shushes Henrik again, holding him closer. Henrik can’t help but start crying again at that; he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve any of this kindness, this comfort from John. “Darling... darling, do you really think I haven’t been through worse than you slapping my hands away when you’re panicking? It didn’t even hurt, it was just a shock. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Henrik hides his face in the crook of John’s shoulder.

“Did it upset you? The whispering? I thought... it usually helps, that’s all.”

Henrik nods. “Yeah,” he chokes out. “It does. I just... it was too much. I’m sorry.”

“Should I not do that anymore?”

“No, don’t – don’t stop,” Henrik mutters, hearing his voice break. He tries to think of a way to explain that this was a particularly horrible night, that things are different when he’s like _that_ , but he can’t. His throat hurts from the screaming and his head hurts from everything and he thinks he’s used up all the words he has.

“Okay,” John murmurs, stroking Henrik’s hair.

Henrik leans into the touch, then proceeds to realise just how much pain he’s in, and it’s stupid, really, because he knows he did this to himself. Of fucking course his limbs are sore and it hurts to move. But he leans against John’s shoulder anyway and forces back a sob.

“Oh, sweetheart... are you in pain? Is there anything I can get you? Anything that would help?”

Henrik shakes his head. He just wants to stay here. He wants to stay here, huddled up in John’s arms, and pretend that everything’s fine.

It’s pathetic, he knows that. And it’s not fair for him to be seeking out this kind of comfort from John right now.

“I was doing better than this,” Henrik suddenly feels the need to insist. “Before... I was doing better. I swear I wasn’t breaking down like this all the time. I hardly ever had episodes this bad. And then... well, Fredrik died. And I suppose that made things a lot worse. I can’t remember the last time I had a meltdown like this – screaming, hurting myself – before that.”

(Since that day, though, they’ve happened semi-regularly, twice or thrice a year; the less bad ones, where he’s ‘just’ sobbing and incoherent and unable to think straight, seem to happen every few months. Henrik hates it. After years and years of hating himself for having these breakdowns, he’d slowly started to overcome them in his mid-30s and his 40s, and now he’s just right back at square one. Back to practically being reduced to a screaming toddler under the slightest stress. If he thought it was embarrassing to still be having meltdowns at 32, it’s even worse at 55.

His stress tolerance is so much lower these days. He feels overwhelmed just by the pressure of working in medicine sometimes: he knows there’s no chance he could ever be a CEO again. Logically, he’s aware his brain’s limitations aren’t his fault – as John is prone to reminding him, and as his therapist probably explained to him dozens of times. But that doesn’t make it any easier.)

“I get it,” John promises.

Henrik sighs. “I hate this. I hate that this still happens. It was bad enough at university, but now...”

“I’m sorry,” John says gently. “And you know I don’t mean that in a pitying way, don’t you? Just... I’m sorry that things are so hard for you. I wish they were easier.”

Henrik nods. “Thank you,” he responds, and he feels like that probably isn’t the sort of remark one thanks someone for, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Do you want to go to bed? I’m sure you’re tired.”

“I don’t know,” Henrik murmurs. He’s exhausted, he always is after days like this, and the fact that he only slept a few hours last night isn’t helping. But even just the thought of switching tasks, of leaving the kitchen in favour of their bedroom, is too overwhelming right now. And he doesn’t want to let John down.

“I’ll make dinner. Then you can have a lie down if you want, yeah?”

“Okay,” Henrik agrees.

John helps Henrik up, guiding him to the kitchen table. “Do you want to talk about it? Why you were so upset? Later, I mean. I know you’re probably not up for it right now.”

“Yeah. Not right now, please. But we can talk later,” Henrik promises.

John nods. “Okay.”


End file.
